Bang! Bang! Bang! Somebody emptied a pistol into the headquarters as fast as he could shoot. Behind Rodriguez, a man yowled. At least one of those bullets had struck home. Rodriguez fired at the muzzle flashes. He worked the bolt, fired again, and then rolled away from that spot. He didn't know whether he'd hit the enemy, but no more shooting came from that direction, so he hoped he had.
Running feet in the street, these from the direction of the alcalde's house. A sharp cry of "Vamonos!" came from behind Freedom Party headquarters. Rodriguez heard more running feet, these running away. Quinn's Tredegar barked again. The Freedom Party leader whooped again, the high, shrill cry English-speaking Confederates called the Rebel yell.
"Madre de Dios." An officer of the guardia civil — a policeman, in other words-stared at the burning corpse in the middle of the street. He crossed himself, not bothering to take the heavy pistol from his hand first. Then, pulling himself together, he strode up to Freedom Party headquarters. In a loud voice, he demanded, "What happened here?"
"I will handle this," Robert Quinn declared. To the policeman, he said, "They tried to murder us. They tried to burn down our building and roast us inside of it. They wounded one of our men-I do not know how badly poor Carlos is hurt. All we did was defend ourselves."
"Some defense," the officer muttered. "If you'd done any more defending, nothing would be left of Baroyeca. Come out here now, with your hands up, all of you." He sounded nervous, as well he might have. If the Freedom Party men felt like fighting instead of obeying, the alcalde — the mayor-probably didn't have enough force to make them follow orders.
But Quinn said, "We are law-abiding citizens. The Freedom Party is the party of law and order. And I told you, we have a wounded man. We will come out." In a low voice, he added, "Hip, stay behind and cover us in case this pendejo is not to be trusted."
"Si, senor," Rodriguez whispered. The other Freedom Party men strode past him and out into the street. Carlos Ruiz walked unsteadily, his right hand pressed tight to his left shoulder.
A couple of more men from the guardia civil came up. They spoke with Quinn and the rest of the Freedom Party men in low voices, then led them away. Nobody made any move to shoot anyone, not now. Hipolito Rodriguez set down his Tredegar. As quietly as he could, he crawled to the back door and left. No one waited for him there-no one living, anyhow. Two bodies lay in the alley behind the headquarters. Magdalena wouldn't be happy with him. He was happy just to be breathing. He expected he could deal with his wife. She argued much less than a bullet.
E arly summer in Nashville made a good practice ground for hell. Of course, that was true through most of the Confederate States. Jake Featherston had brought the Freedom Party nominating convention to the capital of Tennessee for a couple of reasons. Moving it off the Atlantic coast reminded people the Party was a national outfit. And looking just a little north into stolen Kentucky reminded them what was at stake.
Flash bulbs popped when Jake got off the train from Richmond. Purple and iridescent green spots danced before his eyes. Supporters on the platform shouted, "Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!" Others called his name, again and again: "Feather ston! Feather ston! Feather ston!" The two cries merged and blended in his ears. Together, they felt sweeter than wine, stronger than whiskey. Despite those spots before his eyes, he waved to the crowd.
Despite those shouts, his bodyguards formed up around him, protecting his flesh with their own. One bastard with a rifle had gunned down a Confederate president and sent the Freedom Party on a ten-year journey through hell. Another one now could wreck things again. If they put Willy Knight in the top spot instead of number two, could the Party win in November? Probably, Jake thought. This year, probably. But it wouldn't be the same. He was sure of that. Willy Knight had a handsome face and handled himself pretty well on the stump. Jake… Jake had plans.
Maybe, just maybe, Knight had plans, too. Maybe, just maybe, those plans involved a hero's funeral for Jake Featherston. That was another reason the bodyguards in their almost-Confederate uniforms didn't leave an assassin a clear shot.
"What will you do if you're elected, Mr. Featherston?" a reporter shouted through the din.
"Put this country back on its feet," Jake answered, as he had so many times before. "Settle accounts with everybody who's done us wrong."
"Who would that be?" the eager beaver asked.
"You know who. You know what we stand for. Traitors better run for the hills. Niggers better behave themselves. The Confederate States have been too soft for too long. We won't be soft any more."
"Would you-?" The reporter never got to finish the question. The phalanx of guards, with Featherston at its core, pushed off the platform and through the station towards a waiting limousine. Freedom Party men and women waving Confederate and Party flags surrounded them, hands reaching between the bodyguards to touch Jake, if only for an instant. He shook some of them. When he squeezed one woman's soft, plump fingers, she moaned as if she were coming right where she stood. He almost laughed out loud. He'd seen that before, and heard it, too.
The limousine took him to the Heritage Hotel. The lobby was full of painted scenes of Confederate victory in the War of Secession and the Second Mexican War; a plaque said they came from the brush of Gilbert Gaul. There were no scenes from the Great War, perhaps because Gaul died in 1919, but more likely because there were no victories to record.
The Hermitage Hotel had come through the war without much damage. Most of Nashville hadn't been so lucky when Custer's First Army seized it from the Confederate defenders in 1917. The Memorial Auditorium, across the street from the hotel, was a postwar building. What ever had stood there before wasn't standing when the damnyankees grudgingly gave the land south of the Cumberland back to the CSA in exchange for the bit of Kentucky they hadn't overrun. Jake reluctantly acknowledged that that was smart-with all of Kentucky in U.S. hands, no Confederate Senators and Representatives from the rump of the state could fulminate in Congress about how it needed to be redeemed.
His suite looked out at the Memorial Auditorium. Confederate flags and Freedom Party banners flew above it. Inside, delegates would be going through the motions of a political convention. Going through the motions was all they'd be doing. Unlike Whig and Radical Liberal conventions, this one was sewn up tight as a drum.
And I know who did the sewing. Featherston peered into a mirror with a gilt frame of rococo extravagance. His lean, leathery features suddenly lit up in a grin. "Me," he said aloud, and pointed at his own reflection.
He'd just fixed himself a drink when someone knocked on the door. He had guards in the hallway. They wouldn't let anyone dangerous past. He opened the door without hesitation. There stood Ferdinand Koenig, who'd come west from Richmond with him. "Come on in, Ferd," he said.
"Willy here yet?" Koenig asked as he stepped into the suite.
Featherston shook his head. But then another door down the hall opened. Out stepped Knight, dapper in a gray pinstriped suit with sword-sharp lapels. He waved and walked down the hall toward the two longtime Freedom Party men. "Pat him down, boss?" one of the guards asked out of the side of his mouth.
"No, it's all right," Jake whispered back. "Nothing to worry about." The guard looked dubious. So did Koenig. They both played it Jake's way, though. Everybody plays it my way from now on, he thought, and smiled. Everybody.